The two photographs below require a bit of explanation: The first was taken at the confluence of Beatty and McLane Creeks. I was standing at water's edge of McLane, and the view is directly into the mouth of Beatty Creek. For the second shot, I stepped over all that debris and pointed the camera directly upstream. What's important here is what's NOT to be seen, specifically the dark, sinuous motion of several large chum salmon fighting their way up Beatty Creek to their natural spawning grounds.
It is nearly mid-December. In a typical year I would not be able to stand on dry land at this spot along McLane Creek, even if I might want to - the stream would be so deep and the current so strong it might knock me down. Only a few salmon would be entering Beatty Creek, only a handful sweeping away at their redds further upstream. The peak of the run would have passed. The scene along the way would be mostly one of carnage, the stream and its lower banks littered with rotting carcasses - the bleak aftermath of a successful spawn. Instead, today only a paste of rotting leaves remains on the damp gravel. The heavy and steady rains of November have yet to arrive, and purge the creek. Furthermore, the forecast for the rest of December suggests they may not arrive until 2020, well paste the time for spawning.
This is not the first time late or otherwise insufficient rain has wrecked an annual run on Beatty Creek. It is an ephemeral stream to begin with, and even in a good year its bottom is dry as a bone by June. In the fall that bottom will be covered in a thick mix of leaves and other detritus offered up by the surrounding deciduous trees and shrubs.
Then, usually in the first week or two of November, a series of wet warm fronts will blow into the area from the Pacific coast, one right after another. They usually come through only a day or so behind each other, creating a kind of wet pulse which soon translates itself into surging crests of stream flow in the creeks.
Then comes the surge - the full force removes virtually anything in its pathway. It’s wonderful to watch the cleaning process; even more wonderful to see what happens when the cycle settles long enough for the chum to run up stream and lay their eggs.
Sitting (or sometimes lying) quietly along the banks of Beatty Creek, just a few feet away from the chum, can be a deeply moving experience. I will miss it this year, it appears. But that won’t diminish my love for Beatty Creek, nor will it keep me from studying and recording its ways. I will not, however, write a book about the experience – been there and done that with Up Fanno Creek. Instead I’ll simply journal my efforts on this blog from time to time. I may also pull a weed or two, and pick up the occasional bits of litter I happen across. If you are a wetlands lover, as I am, stay tuned.